A Study in Narcissism and Delusion
by RadiantStardust
Summary: What creates men as cold as Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes?


Disclaimer: I am in no way, shape, or form affiliated with _Sherlock _or _BBC. _I'm also American, so apologies for the American-isms.

* * *

"_I want magic." A Streetcar Named Desire, _Blanche.

When Violet was a young girl, she watched her parents dance. Her mother was beautiful and elegant as she danced with her husband—not Violet's father, the artist, but another man. Her new husband. Violet thought her mother looked so beautiful at that moment, and she felt a sudden desire to try dancing. Violet stood before a mirror in her room that night and examined herself. She stretched herself up on her toes, trying to look graceful and beautiful. Her efforts did little to make the thin, plain little girl look as radiant as her mother had. Frustrated, Violet swore never to dance.

Violet grew into a voluptuous adolescent. She eyed herself critically in the windows of a café, overlooking a bustling street and sighed. Anyone who passed and heard such a sigh might assume that the young girl perceived some flaw in her reflection. She saw none, though. She was beautiful. She was perfect. No, the cause of her distress was not her appearance. It was her name. Violet Smith. So plain and ordinary. Her name ought to be special and glamorous. She ought to have the name of a film star—Vesta Vandora, or the like. But no, in spite of her great beauty, she was born Violet Smith.

Violet was sixteen. She fell deeply and wholly in love with a man. He was soft and warm-hearted. Violet had always had a cold sort of beauty—eyes so blue they were nearly grey. Pale skin. High cheekbones and sharp, angular features. He was warm, and Violet was cold. He was fire, and she was ice. He was day, and she was night. They had little in common, save that they both thought Violet was beautiful. They had a child. The wedding came soon after.

Violet Smith became wife to Edward Holmes and mother to Mycroft. Edward was away, though—so often away. Violet grew lonely and bored. She tired of raising her child. She had affairs, several, in fact, but when Edward returned, she doted over him. She loved him, adored him! She was just a poor, young beautiful wife, who had the misfortune of marrying a businessman. She mentioned it only once to her husband, so he surprised her with a trip to America.

It was nice, different and exciting. Violet was pregnant with another child.

* * *

"_I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you." The Merchant of Venice, _Shylock.

"I beg your pardon?"

The nurse blinked confusedly. "I said your son is healthy. You are very fortunate."

"Yes, I heard _that_. I meant—that name. What did you call him?"

"Sherlock?"

"_Sherlock_? His name was supposed to be _Shylock_! Haven't you read any Shakespeare? Honestly, you idiot Americans-"

"Dear, I'm sure that a misspelling can be remedied," Edward said. "There is no need to be so upset."

Violet narrowed her eyes. It was his fault she had children. She never wanted them—the terrible, loud creatures. "No, forget it. Sherlock is fine. Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes."

Violet drifted in and out. She drifted between excitement and boredom, love and hatred. She fancied herself the centre of the universe, and she loathed those who disagreed with her. She was jealous, yet called herself a saint. She broke when it was revealed—when her strange, terrible, unnatural child revealed her husband's affair. Sherlock rattled off his observations with little heed. The man left soon after. Edward ran, leaving Violet a wife without a husband and two children.

* * *

"_It was the children. What chance had a woman got, even one of the Lovely Cornwall Sisters—here she simpered at the mirror over again—if a great horde of young louts were always tumbling round the castle, and pushing themselves forward?" The Witch in the Wood, _T.H. White.

How could she hope to attract any suitable man? How could she hope to pretend she was twenty-five when Mycroft looked at least thirteen? How could she hope to attract any man when her children weren't even _human_? Violet couldn't understand why she'd been given such children. Her children were as cold as ice and cared for nothing but themselves. Violet could see it in the bold defiance that Mycroft often gazed at her with and in the icy calm of Sherlock's winter-coloured eyes.

She hated them. Her only reprieve was when the boys went away for their schooling, but they always returned home. They returned, erratic and wild. Mycroft was as frigid as ice, showing respect and affection to his mother but little more to anyone else. Except Sherlock. He adored Sherlock. Sherlock alternated between ice and fire. Sometimes, cold and apathetic. Other times loud and scalding.

Violet wasn't entirely sure which child unnerved her more. She decided on Sherlock since he looked the most like his father.

The boys returned for the Christmas holidays. Violet had found a man, a very rich man, who was attracted to her despite her having two children, so Violet doted over her children. She loved them! She would do anything for her beloved children! Mycroft watched in an aloof manner, a slight smile on his face. Sherlock appeared to be near tears—from joy, certainly!

In all reality, Mycroft was watching with cold calculation. He was older, knew his mother's mannerisms better, and understood that he and his brother were being used. Mycroft knew that Sherlock realized it, too, but his younger brother so rarely voiced his thoughts around their mother. His tears were more from frustration and confusion than from joy.

* * *

"_Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" A Scandal in Belgravia, _Sherlock Holmes.

Christmas had gone poorly. Sherlock tried to behave; he really did. He just didn't understand. What was he _supposed _to say when his mother's friend/lover turned to him and said, "I've heard you're _brilliant_, Sherlock."

"Have you?"

"Yes. Quite observant, aren't you?"

Sherlock mistook the pleasantry for a challenge. The man's face paled as Sherlock explained his observations with frantic delight. He paused, then, perceiving that he'd done something wrong, not knowing what or why. The man left, and his mother stared at him. Mycroft hovered nervously by Sherlock, like he expected their mother to lash out and hurt his younger brother. "I—I'm sorry," Sherlock stammered. "Mum."

She stormed away. Sherlock cast his gaze to the ground. "Mum?" he whispered. "I...I'm..."

A strong hand landed on his shoulder. "She'll forget about it in time, Sherlock. You did nothing wrong."

"You keep saying that, and I keep hurting her."

Sherlock watched his mother dance when he thought she'd forgotten him. She did that often. Her dancing was less graceful and less restrained. Her movements were wild and sporadic, heeding neither rhythm nor beat. Sherlock watched and felt sick. He thought with the certain irrationality that children often do and knew that somehow, it was his fault. For the first time, Sherlock wondered if there was something deeply wrong with him.

Silently, Sherlock retreated to the study, the place where his father used to sit. Sherlock was a small child, never eating enough, and he felt even smaller seated in his father's large chair by the fireplace. He shifted uncomfortably before leaping from the chair in a bout of nervous, excited energy. He turned towards the books on the shelf, trailing a finger along the spines of the volumes and reading the titles silently to himself. He chose one by chance—_The Witch in the Wood—_and plucked the volume from the shelf. He curled up in his father's chair and began to read.

Queen Morgawse had four children—Gawain, Agravaine, Gaheris, and Gareth. Queen Morgawse was a selfish, delusional witch who ignored her children sometimes and smothered them with affection at others. Sherlock was afraid. She reminded him of his own mother. Sherlock decided he hated fairy tales.

It occurred to him that if he didn't care for his mother, it wouldn't hurt so badly. It occurred to him that, perhaps, that was why Mycroft was so much stronger than he. Mycroft cared for no one but himself, so he couldn't be hurt. He resolved silently never to allow anyone so close to him. He wouldn't be hurt, and he wouldn't hurt anyone with his strange mannerisms. An ordinary child wouldn't have held on to such a ridiculous resolve, but Sherlock was never ordinary.

When Sherlock was fifteen, his father came to visit his mother. Sherlock's mother made tea, and he watched secretly, for he'd been forbidden to interrupt. He would have to tell Mycroft later; his older brother was away. Then, his father paled. His hands shook. His skin paled. The man collapsed from his chair. Dying. Poisoned.

Oleander. His mother kept oleander in her garden. Sherlock remained hidden and frozen and watched as his father struggled to breathe and shook on the floor. His mother stood, walking from the table as if in a daze. Sherlock couldn't imagine what she was thinking, but he knew something was wrong. She walked unsteadily, her hands shaking. "Mum! Mum, stop!"

The woman started, shaking, and turned around. "Sherlock..." she breathed. "Oh, sweet, dear Sherlock! I've been a terrible mother to you. Do you realize that?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly and said nothing. "My poor orphaned children," his mother said.

His mother's eyes were filled with tears and regret/sorrow/pain/finality. Her smile was weak and sad. Exhausted/nostalgic. Slowly, his mother turned away and to the antique chest sitting against the wall. She had a gun. The woman turned to Sherlock once more, and he observed. The gun was pointed towards him, but his mother wasn't going to shoot him. Sherlock could tell. Her gaze had softened with love/pity and no sign of violence. His mother's eyes blazed when she wanted to hurt him, punish him. Her eyes were dull. They had lost her spark and showed only pity and resignation. No, she was—_no. _

"Mum, stop! You don't-"

The gunshot filled his ears, and Sherlock watched his mother fall to the floor. There was blood everywhere—too much. He sank to his knees and sobbed. He cradled his mother's head, her blood warm against his skin. "Please," he whispered. "Please, _please_, don't die. I love you. Please."

Sherlock lost all sense of time. He only became aware of anything when Mycroft pried his hands off their mother. "Sherlock! Sherlock! My _God, _Sherlock!"

There were officers everywhere, and Sherlock remained listless and silent. His brother refused to release him, so Sherlock remained in his brother's arms, clenching his brother's coat.

* * *

"_Alone is what I am. Alone protects me." The Reichenbach Fall, _Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft was twenty-two and found himself without parents and fifteen-year-old Sherlock. "I'm sorry," said Sherlock.

"That won't save our parents."

Sherlock stared at his brother. "Do you hate me?" he asked.

Mycroft stared at him and didn't answer. "This is boring," said Sherlock.

"You're so much trouble, Sherlock."

The brothers stared at each other, the silence overwhelming. Sherlock had a sense that something was terribly wrong. There was something broken between him and Mycroft—something that could never be repaired. That night, Sherlock quietly left, his satchel thrown over his shoulder, and never looked back.

When Mycroft found him in four years, he'd be taking cocaine. He'd be a different person—a self-proclaimed sociopath. He'd be desperately holding to his cleverness because it was all he had left to be proud of. People hated him for being clever, and Sherlock pretended it didn't bother him. There was something deeply broken inside Sherlock Holmes, and he ignored it. He refused to acknowledge it, and he refused to let Mycroft help him.

Bad things happened to people who were close to Sherlock Holmes, so he would never let anyone get close to him. Then, years later, he met Dr. John Watson.


End file.
